Heartbeat
by Unoriginality
Summary: One little girl wants to know more about her dad, despite his hesitancy. (Set in the Pandora's Box universe, after From Hephaestus's Forge and Fire Of Prometheus; references to child rape and abuse in the past. Rating for language.)


My dad is considered a hero. Or at least, by most. Some people aren't too happy about the destruction of Central that happened on his watch, but he was stopping a bad guy who was gonna do it anyway, so I think those people are pretty dumb. But he saved so many people, kids like me who bad men hurt. Traded. Used. Paid for 'time with'.

I was four when Dad saved me from one of those human trafficking rings. It wasn't a big one, not a 'nice' operation like the ones in Aerugo that he spent a year taking down while Uncle Al tried to track him down. Grandma Trisha and Grandpa Roy weren't happy when Uncle Al would wander off to the ruins of Central, but I think he was just calling out for Dad. Those two have this weird mental connection. They usually know where the other are and what they're feeling, even when they're not together, which isn't often.

But I've been told that I don't get to know what made Dad into who he is today. He's rough around the edges, quiet, sometimes talks with his hands until someone reminds him he doesn't have to 'anymore'. I know he's got a scar on his neck and three on his face. Grandpa Roy has told me there's more, but don't count on ever seeing them. Nobody will tell me how my Dad became a hero or just how he is now. Uncle Al has said he was in a bad place for awhile when he was younger, but that's the most I've ever gotten to hear.

Dad says I'm too young to know.

He says to the girl who was raped repeatedly as a toddler. I don't know if he's telling the truth, which scares me that something worse could've happened to him, or if I should try to corner him because he's just scared of talking.

I probably shouldn't corner my dad, really. He's never yelled at me, never struck me, but when he gets really silent and gives me a disapproving look, I know I've done bad and I never do what upset him again.

But I have to know about those scars I can see. Maybe someday I'll get him to tell me everything, but I want to know about those, at least. That's okay, right?

Dad likes to relax in the corner of the living room in the evenings. Uncle Al is usually at the dining room table, working on homework. He's studying to be a teacher, but I think he's too young to actually get a job yet. Grandma Trisha usually is with him, and Aunt Riza and Grandpa Roy are in the living room with us, listening to the radio. Grandpa Roy has a glass of whiskey and Aunt Riza has a romance book and a shawl around her shoulders, no matter the temperature.

I'm supposed to be doing my homework in the dining room with Uncle Al and Grandma Trisha, but I ask Grandma permission to go spend some time with Dad.

"Of course," Grandma Trisha say. "You look like you've mostly finished anyway. But you get up early to finish that last page."

"Yes, Grandma," I say, closing up my workbook and hopping off the chair.

The living room is exactly as it normally is, Grandpa Roy with his whiskey, Aunt Riza with her book, and Dad in his corner.

Grandpa Roy notices me first. "Hannah, are you done with your homework already?"

I shake my head. "Grandma Trisha says it was alright to come out here. I have to get up early to finish my last page, though."

Dad looks up from whatever he's reading, always some science book, way above my head. Grandpa Roy says it's above his head too. My dad is amazing. "Your grandmother spoils you," he says.

"Not as much as you do, Edward," Grandpa Roy says.

Dad gives Grandpa Roy a dirty look that belong better on a kid my age. Dad's twenty-four, he really shouldn't be doing that anymore. "I take care of my kid just fine. Can it, Mustang."

Mustang is Grandpa Roy's last name. Usually Dad calls him 'Dad', but sometimes he just calls him by name. They both say it goes back to their military days. Dad was never that mouthy, but they got on good terms enough to tease each other like that.

It's weird, but I like knowing my family gets along like that.

I march over to Dad, determined to not let my questions be dodged this time and crawl up on his lap under his book.

He makes an indignant noise, setting aside his book. "Hannah, you're getting too big for this."

"You're big, I'm still little," I protest, settling in with my legs curled around his knee and my head against his right shoulder.

Dad sighs and picks me up, switching me to his other side. "You know I don't like you messing with that arm, Hannah," he scolds.

His right arm is covered with a long tattoo that gives him special alchemy. That's all I'm told about it. He's healed bumps and scrapes on all of us at point or another, the tattoo lines glowing red and him doing nothing but putting his hand a little away from the injury. I don't know how he does it. Uncle Al has to clap, but Grandpa Roy says every other alchemist in the world has to have a circle. I guess Dad and Uncle Al's teacher was able to clap, but she passed away a long time ago. I barely remember her.

But I'm not allowed to interact with Dad's tattoo unless he's stitching up a scraped knee.

Dad sits back in his seat, wrapping his arms around me and holding me against him. I can hear his heartbeat from this side, and like when I was younger and still hurting a lot from the bad people, it makes me feel better. Makes me feel a bit stronger, a bit braver, which I need.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you _please_ tell me something about you?"

He stiffens, drawing in a deep breath. I hear Grandpa Roy's glass set down on the table with a tink and Aunt Riza draws her shawl around her tighter.

Dad stares at me, in a way that makes me almost regret asking. "Hannah, you know I've told you you're too young for this story."

I shake my head. "I'm not asking for the whole story," I say. "I just wanna know what gave you those scars on your face and the one on your throat. No one ever tells me anything about you. You're my dad, shouldn't I know _something?"_

Dad's expression turns distant, like remembering something bad. Like when I remember the night I followed him home, how bad it'd been in that little cage and I wanted out, wanted him to protect me, but he had nobody to protect him.

"Please?"

He sighs, adjusting me on his lap. "All right," he says. "I guess that won't hurt anything." He tapped the scar on his throat. "This one was just a medical procedure. I hurt my throat and my doctors had to put a trach in me so I could breathe until the injury above that healed enough for me to breath on my own again. Nothing big."

I know _that's_ a lie, but I don't want to call him on it.

"What about the three on your face?"

"Shrapnel," Dad says. I don't entirely buy that, either, so I keep staring at him expectantly. He wrinkles his nose. "You're not gonna leave me alone about this, are you?" When I shake my head, he lets loose a really rude huff of air and I'm almost upset. "The one under my eye really was shrapnel," he says. "I was at a firebase up in Drachma and a tree got hit with artiliary, sent a bit flying at me. I got my head turned, just scratched me."

An answer. Not an acceptable one, I didn't like the idea of Dad deployed out into dangerous areas, but an answer that sounded true.

I nod once. "What about the one over your lip?"

"Someone decided to bite me," he says, his tone a bit dry, not quite so distant and hurt. Whoever bit him, it didn't bother him, or it amused him flat out that someone would try.

I scrunch up my face. "Why would someone bite your lips like that?"

"Because he was crazy as a sh-" He pauses, eyeing me, then sighs. "I suppose you've already heard all these words before."

"Shithouse rat?" I finish for him, a bright smile on my face. I know that drives him batty.

He tries to give me a dirty look, squinting one eye at me. "Enough from you," he says.

I shake my head. "One more scar."

He reaches up with his right hand as if by habit, nothing done consciously, his fingers rubbing the old scar that slices down his forehead over his right eye. "I think we're done for the night, Hannah."

"Edward, tell her," Grandpa Roy says. "Nobody says you have to go into the full story."

Dad stares at him with that same look he gives me when I've done something wrong, and I shrink down on his lap, almost wanting to run back to the dining room and finish my homework with Grandma Trisha.

Grandpa Roy doesn't back down, returning Dad's ice cold look with one of extreme patience, and then Dad makes that rude noise again. "She's too young."

"Edward, she's ten, and you know where she was before. Not the whole story, but tell her this much."

I'm not sure what where I had been before Dad had to do with this scar, but suddenly I regretted asking.

Dad looks down at me, worry marring his face more than those scars do. Finally, he pulls me back closer onto his lap, pressing my head against him. His heartbeat is soothing. "All right," he says. "You gotta be older before you find out more, but I suppose this won't hurt."

I close my eyes. "You don't have to, Daddy," I say in a very small voice.

Dad pulls his head back to look down at me. I return the look, feeling as small as my voice. I haven't called him 'Daddy' in about a year or so, outgrowing the childish name.

His arms around me tighten, holding me close, and I can hear tears trying to form in his voice. "It's okay, Hannah. Your grandpa's right, it's not the full story. But I was training in the military under a bad person. He was rough, awful, very unforgiving."

Normally, I would've protested being talked to like I was younger than ten, but I _feel_ younger, hearing that thickness in my dad's voice. So I just press myself into his grip tighter. "Did he hurt you like me?"

Dad draws in another deep breath, like earlier. "Not quite," he says. "In most ways, no. He was turning me into a soldier, not just a victim. But I refused an order and tried to walk away. He pushed me against the outside wall of the supply station we were deployed to. I hit the clip holding the drainpipe up, then hit the brick and down to the ground." He swallows tightly, as if saying as much is hard, whether because he doesn't like saying it, or if it's because he doesn't want me to see that darkness in him. "The clip ripped up the skin a bit. It just healed as a scar. It happens sometimes."

I squirm out of his grip to sit up, my knees probably digging into his thighs, and wrap my arms around his neck. I was crying, crying for Dad, because no one should go through that, and crying in regret. "I'm sorry, Daddy, I shouldn't have asked, it still hurts, I heard it."

He rubs my back with one hand, his other arm tight around me. "It's okay, sweetheart," he says. "Grandpa was right, knowing a little isn't a bad thing. And sometimes talking helps." Then he pulls me back enough to look him in the eye. "But I won't go back on what I said. You will be much older before I give you the whole story, okay? So no more questions."

I nod my head, wiping away tears with my fists, feeling half my age. "All right."

I have time still to go finish my homework, but I didn't want to leave Dad without a good hug and I needed one too, so I got back down to curl up on his lap, my knees no longer braced on his thighs.

Dad holds me tight. "Don't you wanna go finish your homework so you don't have to get up early?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I wanna be with you awhile. I can wake up early."

"All right," he says, then adjusts my position on his lap and pets my hair with his special right hand.

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, Hannah."

His heartbeat is soothing.


End file.
